Storm
by KoteSkirata
Summary: Dick Grayson's best friend has survived an abusive father and a dramatic rescue from the aforementioned father, courtesy of Robin, because she knows Dick will always be there for her - until now. Can their friendship survive?


**I write fanfics all the time, and this is one of my very best. Enter Storm, teenage rebel artist, who just happens to be Dick Grayson's best friend. Hang on for the ride, and tell me what you think. **

**-KS**

_Storm Riley O'Daire_

I have no words.

I rarely have words, you see. That's why I use pictures. Simple lines of lead or carbon or charcoal, but I can make you cry with those simple lines. I can break your heart into a thousand scarred pieces. Just exactly the way my heart is breaking now.

I stand in the airport, my backpack by my feet. I concentrate on it so I won't have to look up. It's black canvas, bedazzled in red with a skull; the skull's eyes are in the shape of hearts, and it has fangs. My small act of rebellion against a world of boring luggage.

Bruce shatters my moment of concentration, my moment of blissful denial. He says in that voice that just radiates responsible decency, "Storm, I have something for you."

I have to look up then, even though I don't want to. It's not Bruce that I'm scared to look at.

It's Dick.

Bruce holds out a brand new cell phone – slide keyboard, candy apple red. Dear God, I want it. "This has unlimited long distance. Don't worry about the bill. Talk all you want." He gives me a small smile, a sad one, with worry lining his face. Worry for me, for Dick, for – well – everyone. That's what Bruce does, you see. He does his absolute best to make the world better for everyone. Thus, the cell phone.

I take it from his hand with a weak smile and a whispered thank you. The phone goes into my back pocket, the only pocket that I still trust on these raggedy black jeans. They surpass fashion statement, into the realm of impractical, but they are my favorites.

I'm also wearing the black leather jacket that Dick gave me last night, up by the waterfall. It smells like him.

Then there are no more excuses, and Bruce and Alfred have moved away to give us privacy. There's really no way out of this moment.

But there is a way out of my current situation. It all depends on Dick. All he has to do is offer me a place at the Manor. I can't ask, won't ask. I'm too proud, too tough, too scared. But do I really want to stay? Or do I want to go? To go to France, to attend the Academy, to learn new styles and techniques and just elevate my art.

How can I want both? I don't understand.

I look into Dick's blue-grey eyes, and see my own anguish there. It's just like that moment when I fixed his computer in the library at school, when we looked at each other and we each knew that we were thinking the same thing. That's when we promised to stick together.

That one thought that we share is what makes it so natural when I throw my arms around his neck and bury my face in his shoulder and he holds onto me so tightly that I can't breathe. But I wouldn't change this one moment for all the world. I can't survive without him now, can I? Can I?

I feel him run his fingers through my choppy black hair, and I close my eyes and wait for the whisper that will be my salvation. Just… say it, Dick. _Stay._ You can say it… please…

He breathes into my ear, "I miss you already, Storm."

Tears fill my eyes, and I blink them away. Dick makes it sound like we're already separated, and maybe we are. Separated by that statement, by him not saying what we both know I wanted him to say. But maybe that's partly my fault, because last night when I tried to explain how I feel about going to France, I was dumb enough to tell him the truth. That I both don't want to go… and I do want to go.

And Dick doesn't want to stand in my way. He's far too good for that.

I'm dying inside, and my best friend the rebel is too good to say the one thing that can save me.

I pull back, out of his arms, physically distancing us just as I now distance my heart from his. Numb and yet still frozen with daggers of pain, I say softly, "I have to go."

There's a fuzzy collection of moments – Alfred's gentle kiss on my cheek, Bruce's firm handshake, the hurt on Dick's face – and then I sling my backpack over my shoulder and walk. Just… walk. But oh my God, it hurts to walk away.

One step. My heart is breaking.

One more. My hands are shaking.

I let the terminal door swing close behind me, knowing with a cold, sick certainty that there's nothing I can do, nothing I could have done to change this moment. This one moment, when I want to give in to the icy hurt and burst into tears and run back to him.

But I am Storm. And when storms break, their end is near.

So I don't break. I hold it together. I board my plane and take the window seat. I put the backpack between my feet and pull the new phone out of my pocket so I don't sit on it.

One breath without him.

One more breath without him.

And one more.

And one more again.

I look down at the phone in my hand. Full reception, fully charged. Internet capable, text, calling, pictures… Everything I'll need to stay connected with Dick while I study in France.

I open up my backpack, stuff the phone all the way down to the bottom, and zip it shut.

What should I have done?

Should I have given in and run back to him, thrown my arms around him and told him I didn't want to go? Should I have asked Bruce to take me out of the system? Should I have fought to stay by not fighting?

I don't know. But now it's too late to change it. And I still know, somehow, that if I had lived it over again, I would still be in this plane seat.

As the plane slowly taxis past the giant glass airport wall, I look back through my window. Am I looking for him? Oh yes. Yes, I am. But I don't see him. I don't see any of them. Bruce and Alfred were always far too good to me. Far better than I deserved.

And speaking of far better than I deserve, there was that night when Robin came to my house, alone, and single-handedly arrested my drunken excuse for a father. . . But that's a completely different issue. Let's not get wrapped up in that, even though Robin does have lovely eyes.

The lady in the seat next to me finally buckles herself in; it's a rather tight fit. She sighes loudly, glacing over at me. She's what some would call stout, but the friendliness is real enough. And so is the comprehension in her eyes that dawns as soon as we make eye contact.

"Aw, honey," she says gently, "You miss him?"

"Yes," I whisper. My voice is raw and weak, and my heart is pounding away inside me like I've run a marathon. Just thinking about Dick makes me cold all over, and for a moment I glance down at the Academy's brochure in my lap. It features a large picture of a statue in front of the entryway.

"Don't worry about him," she says firmly. "You're better off without him, anyhow."

I look up at her in surprise, and she laughs before adding, "If we girls are out mooning around for boys, who's gonna set the world straight, huh? Naw, you an' me, honey, we'll do better on our own. No one can hold ya back now, sweetheart. You go out there and show 'em how it's done, yeah?"

I glance back at the brochure, and wish I was the statue; unfeeling forever. That would kill the icy agony in me. "Yeah," I agree. "I'll show them. I'll. . . I'll show _him._"

The lady snorts and smiles. "Heck yeah," she replies. "Girl power is the only way to go. Can't be waitin' 'round for dumb old boys, now can we?" My bright brochure catches her eye, and she cocks her head. "You an artist, honey?"

Now I smile, ignoring all that ache and scream and wail inside of me, walling it off behind something so bright and so fragile that one wrong thought will send it all crashing down. "Heck yeah."

Immediately, she produces a pen and holds it out. "Show me, honey."

I hesitate, even though I take the pen. The plane lurches into liftoff, and she reminds me, "Better off without him, I promise you that. Now, show me whatcha got, huh?"

Part of me wants to break down. But I've already thought about what happens when storms break. This one needs to hang on, tough it out. So what better way to forget about Dick than with my art? The one escape that no one can ever, ever take away from me.

The lady offers me her hand again, so I uncap the pen and begin inking my beloved simple lines over her skin.

When I hit the ground in France, both of her hands are beautifully decorated, and she has praised me enough to make me blush. The lady – Marjorie – waves me a cheerful goodbye, and we part ways. I am on my way to the place where someone is supposed to meet me when my bag makes a noise like a lightsaber igniting.

It's the phone. I pull it out to see a new text from a number that's already listed in the contacts as Dick. I bet that Bruce set up all the other numbers I might need, and probably also a ringtone that I'd like. The text says, _Miss u. Land ok?_

I grit my teeth and channel the spirit of Marjorie. _Girl power. Better off without him. Show him what you got._

I text back, _Fine._

Then I stick the phone in my pocket and head for the doors. I am met by a man holding a sign that says _Tempete._ Storm, in French. Great; my French isn't terribly good, and I have a feeling that the Academy teachers won't be speaking English.

When the phone rings that night, I about hit the roof of the dormitory, because it's playing the _Phantom of the Opera _overture. The girls around me mutter in fluid, rapid-fire French. I don't think they like me very much, but they don't speak very good English either.

I answer it.

"Hey, Storm. It's me. How are you doing?"

"I'm fine," I lie out of reflex. "It's ok here. The girls aren't very nice, and the teachers don't like us to draw people until third year, so that could be tricky." All that I draw are people.

What I don't tell him is that I haven't taken off the jacket he gave me.

There's a pause, and he says quietly, "Do you think you'll stay that long?"

I hesitate, then make my voice high and shrill and speak into the phone in the fastest French I can manage, mostly a nonsensical string of words that mean nothing together. I rub the speaker against my sleeve to create static, and then I end the call.

The girls around me giggle into the darkness. I close my eyes and wish I was at home. By which I mean, on the back of Dick's motorcycle, flying along way too fast, my hands in the air while I shout at the top of my lungs and he laughs at me.

Yup. Home. That would be good.

One month, three weeks, and four days later.

I can't count the times I've been punished for drawing people instead of objects. I can't help it; I can't stop drawing Dick and me, the night before I left. He took me up by the waterfall, up to the very top. That's where he gave me the jacket that I wear every day. We ate chocolate and talked about motorcycles and comic books and StarWars and music. Finally, we talked about life. Then he took me back to the Manor for a final night sleep-over. Somewhere in there is where things went wrong. And I can't stop looking at the moments when we were happy. Can't stop drawing them.

I'm so afraid that the teachers will destroy these drawings if they find them, so I've hidden them in the gap behind my sock drawer. I can't lose these pictures, can't lose my phone, can't lose Dick.

Yes, I caved. I talk to him every night, whispered conversations in the dark, lit only by the faint glow of the screen. The wallpaper on the phone is a picture of our hands; I remember that moment, too. There was only one cinnamon roll left, and we reached for it at the same time. We were eating on the steps of the Manor, so I guess Bruce got the picture from a security camera somewhere. It was just one of those weird moments when we were thinking the same thing. And the picture shows the split second when we decided to hold hands.

I never knew that Bruce knew so much about what's important to me.

And the girls here! They like to torment me. Speaking faster than I can follow, though I'm pretty fluent now. Teasing me for my short hair, or my mis-matched eyes. Making fun of my clothes.

But now I'm in serious trouble. The principal himself caught me in the garden, working on a picture of Dick and me on his motorbike. He tried to take it from me. I panicked.

Robin showed me how to make a fist, that night when everything changed. Fingers curled tight, thumb outside the hand, strike flat but use the knuckles.

I broke the principle's nose.

I've sneaked my way back to the dormitory, and I can hear them all whispering inside. Probably gossiping about me, and how much trouble I'm in. Going to be expelled now, like it or not. And then what will I do? Get tossed back into the system. I only got this chance because of my art, and now they'll all just shake their heads and say they knew all along that it wouldn't work out. They'll send me to some kind of foster home, good or bad, but not the same. And Dick won't be there. I don't know what I'll do – run, I think. Take my things, and go. Just go. Run where? I don't know. Food? Money? Shelter? A language I can actually speak? _I don't know!_

But they can't take him from me.

I enter the dormitory, and gasp in horror. Spread out on my bed are my pictures, my drawings. All of my memories, laid out in black and white and careful shading. My world. The girls are pouring over them, whispering in light-speed French. For a moment, I am too shocked to move, and then I shout. "What the _hell_ are you doing?" I shove my way through to my drawings, Dick's hands, the both of us on his motorcycle, the waterfall and him through my eyes, both of us at school… my whole world.

They stand aside for me, silent. So many eyes on me, so many unreadable faces. Then Lilian, the one who has made my life the absolute worst, steps forward. In awkward English, she says slowly, "Oh, _man cher, _I am so sorry. We did not know… but you… _vous l'aimez, _yes? You love him?"

I stand before them all, clutching my sheaf of precious moments to my chest. Slowly, I nod.

This sets off an explosion of voices, French, a little English, even what sounds like Spanish. Above all, I can hear the apologies.

It's stunning. They are sorry, really sorry, for all that they've done to me. I think I get it, though. I'm the American, the weird one who dresses ratty, won't wear makeup, won't follow the rules. We have absolutely nothing in common. But now that they've figured out that I'm _dans l'amour –_ in love – they get it now. They understand. And suddenly, we are all the same.

Within minutes, all of my things are packed, my beloved drawings carefully tucked away in a portfolio that isn't mine, but they're still in my hand. And the girls aren't done yet. But I have to call Dick.

"Hey, Storm. Is something wrong? You usually don't call until later."

Well, duh. It's still early over there, but not here. "Nothing's wrong, Dick. I'm coming home. I'm coming tonight."

"You. . . wait, what?"

It doesn't take me long to explain. He's silent for a second, then says softly, "And they gave you the money? Just like that?"

I bite my lip. The girls have pooled all their allowances and money from home to buy me a plane ticket. I don't think I've ever been so touched in my life. "Yes, they did," I whisper.

I can almost hear him smile. "Ok. I'll see you at the airport, then. Oh, and Storm?"

"Yeah?"

"Hurry home."

I'm almost crying as I hang up. Oh my God, I'm going _home_!

The girls aren't done. Before they let me leave, they dress me for the big moment. I wind up wearing someone's beret, cocked to the side on my short black hair, a sea green tank top under Dick's leather jacket, a scandalously short pleated skirt, and over-the-knee leather boots. Who would have thought that those sweet, politely well-bred French teens could have put together such a sexy outfit? It's almost too scary for me. Then I remember what I'm doing.

I'm running away from an unbelievably exclusive, expensive French art school on a same day plane ticket bought with borrowed money, aided by teenagers no older than me. I can wear this stuff. So what if it's scandalous? _So am I!_ And I'm going home. . .

Lilian makes me promise to write to her. "We are the land of love, _ma belle dame._ We are all dying to know how your romance proceeds." She winks, and pushes me out the door. I shoulder my backpack and run for it, exhilarated by my breakout, safe in the knowledge that a good half of the class is pitching a major makeup crisis purely for my beneft – with all the wailing and complaining, no one will notice that I'm gone for at least an hour.

Storm, _mon cher_, you're free. Let's go show 'em what we got.

The plane ride is uneventful. I fidgit non-stop, irking attendents and passengers alike, but I don't even smile an apology. Too excited. Too anxious. Too impatient.

Getting off the plane takes an age, but then there he is – waiting for me, just like he promised. I slam into him so hard we both stumble, and then Dick picks me up and swings me around, and I hide my happy tears in his shoulder. He runs his fingers through my hair and presses his face into my jacket. We feel the same, just like before. And then he says what I've wished so long for him to say.

"Stay with me, Storm. I'll never let anyone take you away from me again. Stay."

I'm crying all over the makeup that was bestowed on my protesting skin, but they told me it was waterproof. Irrelevant, but oddly funny at this moment. Unable to speak, I nod as hard as I can.

Finally, we have to separate in order to breathe. I wipe my eyes, and realize Dick is staring at me. "What?" I ask.

"Holy crap," he replies. "What did they do to you over there?" I blush ever so slightly, realizing once again exactly how short my skirt is. But damn cute. I'm a renagade runaway from a French boarding school, I can wear what I want.

Bruce approaches from who-knows-where to settle an arm around my shoulders. "I think she looks lovely, don't you, Dick?"

He swallows, and replies quickly, "Oh, yeah. Of course." I smile. It's nice to be appreciated. Bruce looks down at me and says softly, "You know you have a home with us." I nod, and he smiles.

Dick and I hold hands all the way home. We've got each other now, and it'll stay that way, but it's nice to hold on anyway. As Alfred fusses over my luggage, something falls out of my backpack. It's a letter, with a note in French stuck to the envelope.

The note is from Lilian, and it reads: _Tempete – this was in your post box, which you don't check. Write to us, mon amour. _

The letter is from Marjorie, who is Marjorie Benket, the famous promoter of artists and their work. She took pictures of what I drew on her hands and sent the photos to the board of directors for her firm. They want to make a deal with me, for art and money and fame.

Dick hugs me again, and I've never been so happy.


End file.
